A Wonderful Life
by Joodiff
Summary: They both think they're right... Complete. Happy Christmas 2016. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 _ **Happy Christmas and/or Festive Season 2016 to all WtD fans, and particularly to my friends. :)**_

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 **A Wonderful Life**

by Joodiff

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"You're just being difficult because you know I'm right," Boyd growls, and he accompanies the words with the sort of baleful glare that never fails to send easily-intimidated young junior officers scurrying in all directions.

Grace is not easily-intimidated, she is not a young junior officer, and to fuel his annoyance even further, her response is just a languid shrug and an unflustered, "If you say so."

Certainty is a marvellous thing. Absolute certainty doubly so. But the more Boyd thinks about it, and the longer he has to endure her insufferable quiet smugness, the faster that absolute certainty is disappearing. It's a ridiculous bloody argument anyway, and the fact that he can't stalk away with his dignity intact because they're trapped in the sodding car in the middle of the dense, snarled-up Christmas Eve traffic isn't doing much for his rapidly-rising blood pressure. Even though he's now staring straight ahead, he can still see her irritating half-smile on the very edge of his peripheral vision. Refusing to look at her on principle, he mutters, "It doesn't fucking matter anyway."

"No," she agrees, her perfect serenity undisturbed, "of course it doesn't."

She's so damn infuriating. And if, as he's beginning to fear, she's proved to be right then there's no doubt that she'll spend the rest of the evening – if not the rest of the sodding bloody bastard festive season – reminding him of the fact. In all sorts of exasperating and unsubtle ways. Grinding his teeth, he aims the car at a small unexpected gap in the traffic and accelerates hard towards it, gratified by the way the engine briefly snarls in response. He doesn't need to look at her to know that she's smirking, amused by his… well, what she would definitely call his childishness.

Actually, he _is_ being childish. There, he's admitted it. Only to himself, maybe, but –

"And anyway," he announces, interrupting his own chain of thought, "even if I _am_ wrong – "

"Which you are."

" – it doesn't change a bloody thing, does it?"

"Says who?"

The time Boyd does look at her, but only to glower. "Says _me_."

"Oh, well," Grace says, completely deadpan, "in _that_ case…"

"You're so bloody annoying." Conversational, not at all antagonistic.

She laughs, reaches across from the passenger seat and squeezes his thigh. "I win."

"Piss off, Grace."

It doesn't mean anything, it's simply the way they are. The way they've somehow evolved to be with each other. Doesn't matter a damn to Boyd – to _either_ of them – if anyone else understands it, or not. No-one's business but theirs. He likes it that way, too. Just him and her, and the kind of instinctive, intuitive feel for each other that can't ever be artificially conjured. Means a great deal more to him than the abstract number of notches on his younger self's bedpost, and that's why he looks at her again and grins, quick and fierce, pleased but not at all surprised by the bewitching smile she gives him in return. Her hand stays on his thigh as he negotiates the last few streets to their destination. It doesn't move any higher, but it doesn't need to, not while her thumb continues to draw lazy circles against the muscles that flex every time he dips the clutch to change gear.

Who the fuck cares who's right and who's wrong, anyway? It's London, it's Christmas, and even if he's not as young as he once was Boyd still burns with all the hungry possibilities afforded to a hot-blooded, if slightly bewildered, man who's recently come to realise he's stupidly in love with a woman who, for some unfathomable reason, seems to feel exactly the same way about him despite his many faults and foibles. Just the sort of sentimental crap that would make him shudder if he ever heard anything like it from anyone else, but who really gives a fuck about that, either?

He parks the car out in the road, leaving access to his driveway. It'll annoy the neighbours, no question, but if the weather holds as promised he has every intention of opening the garage door in the morning and starting up the little classic roadster housed within. A few therapeutic minutes of oil and sweat and cursing while Grace sorrowfully shakes her head at him, followed, if the day goes as planned, by a leisurely open-topped drive to the coast, a lot of laughter and good conversation, and a large traditional Christmas dinner cooked and served by someone else. Simple pleasures, too easily taken for granted.

He kisses her at the foot of the steps leading up to the big front door. Impulsive, spontaneous. Just the way he likes to be. Kisses her at the top of the steps, too, just because the mood takes him and he can. It's the most effective way Boyd's yet found to stop her talking, the kissing and what naturally follows it. And it's one thing – _one_ bloody thing – that she's actually willing to admit he's pretty good at. This time, the praise isn't bestowed in words, but in all the wanton promises he can see written in the intense blue eyes that gaze up at him for a heart-stopping moment before she tuts in feigned disapproval. He grins, not just outwardly, but somewhere deep in his wounded, predatory heart. He never saw it coming, this thing they have built together from the wreckage of near-disaster, would never have predicted it if asked, but, just like the taste of her, it's very addictive.

Grace presses herself against him as he unlocks the door, a strange mixture of artless and artful, and brief though the contact is, the suggestive heat of her body leaves its imprint on every last one of the straining nerves that detect it. He shivers, just barely, and it isn't the increasing evening winter chill that's responsible. He thinks she sees it, though, from the knowing smile she gives him as she slips past into the warm, silent stillness of the big house he loves far too much to consider selling. Muttering under his breath, Boyd follows and pauses just long enough to lock the world out, the sound of the familiar rattle of the stout security chain soothing him.

"Drink?" she asks, hanging her coat and bag on the newel post the way she always does. He nods in agreement and moves the offending items to the hall's neatly-aligned row of coat hooks, the way _he_ always does. Maybe it's a game, maybe it's not. He doesn't let it annoy him the way it used to. Life's far too short.

He pauses in the doorway to the living room just to watch her as she investigates the meagre collection of bottles arranged on the bookshelf to see whether or not there are any new additions that might interest her. Probably she already knows that there won't be since he's always been a man for spirits, and such wine that he does deign to purchase goes straight into the wine rack in the kitchen, but she looks anyway. The triumph of hope over experience, he assumes.

When challenged – and Boyd is definitely a man who loves to challenge – she scoffs in embarrassed derision at any suggestion that she's ever been anything more than tolerable-looking, but he has no trouble seeing beauty where she does not, and he sees it now, in the slim lines of her body, the gentle curve of her neck. He looks, and he keeps looking as she complains about the woeful lack of choice and yet selects a bottle anyway. Brandy for her, whisky for him, a little pick-me-up before settling down for what's left of the evening. A very civilised way to start the season's festivities. The gentle clink of glass on glass urges him back into motion, and they meet beside the sofa, everything good and easy between them. He settles first, allowing herself to arrange herself on, against, and around him as she likes, and that's good and easy, too.

It's a moment for dreams and sonnets, but he's simply not that kind of man, so he sips his drink and says nothing. To him nothing is not confrontation, nor is it aggression. It's just silence and serenity, the unexpected sound of contentment. Her hand is on his thigh again, indolent this time, and when she speaks her tone is languid. "So, are you going to admit you're completely and utterly wrong, or…?"

He surveys her for a long moment, not missing the bright spark of mischief in her eyes that's completely at odds with her lazy tone. So she wants to play games, does she? Boyd shakes his head and summons something like the expected level of gruffness to reply, "In your bloody dreams."

Her hand moves up his thigh by a perfectly calculated amount. Just enough to make all the nerve-endings there tingle, not quite enough to send a hot rush of blood coursing right through him. His attention is focused higher, however, on the place where the feeling of light fingertips moving against his chest tells him that she's toying with the idea of unfastening his shirt buttons, one by one. He doesn't interfere – why would he? – just waits for her to speak again. She says, "Well, you can just tell me I'm right, instead, if you prefer."

"Why would I do that?" he inquires, even though he knows it's asking for trouble.

Trouble arrives on his lap with an agility and speed that would surprise anyone else. She's not heavy, but he grumbles anyway, more so as she shifts and squirms to find absolutely the best and most comfortable position – for her. Boyd is not comfortable. Not by any stretch of the imagination, not with the predictable physical reaction the determined wriggling is causing, male physiology being what it is. Still, without attempting to displace her, there's not much he can do about it but register his displeasure vocally. "Jesus, Grace… be _careful_ , for fuck's sake. I don't want to be singing soprano for the rest of my bloody life."

The testy words just seem to amuse her all the more. The obvious answer is to kiss her again. Not a great chore, as far as Boyd is concerned, and he sets about it with some dedication, not allowing her to get more than a word or two out between increasingly long and deep kisses. It's a good strategy, but aside from a discernible increase in the speed of her breathing, what it does for him is rather more obvious than the effect it has on her. She notices. Well, of _course_ she bloody does.

Smirking, she comments, "That looks… uncomfortable."

Uncomfortable doesn't begin to describe it, not with the cruel restriction caused by her weight pulling the expensive fabric of his suit trousers absolutely taut in places where absolutely taut is exceedingly unwelcome. He glares at her. "Funny."

There's wild mischief in the vivid blue eyes again, but by the time Boyd sees it, it's far too late. A small, deft hand has landed on the area in question, and is squeezing gently, and if the action only makes the painful problem of acute constriction even worse, well, he's suddenly got other things on his mind. Just how well that hand fits, for example. Not to mention what it's going to do next. He's only got halfway through that thought before…

Thinking too much is vastly overrated. He's always said so.

-oOo-

It's a very Grace thing to do, begin an earnest heart-to-heart in the tranquil aftermath of such fierce, spontaneous passion. Only semi-dressed and happily stupefied by a powerful mixture of dopamine and oxytocin, all Boyd really wants to do is sleep, preferably without moving from where he is, sprawled out on the sofa with her still curled warmly against him. All things considered, and with only the standard lamp in the corner illuminating the room, it's a hellish struggle just to keep his eyes open, let alone actively participate in the discussion she seems to have decided can't possibly wait for a more appropriate time. He's drifting and he knows it, most of her words sliding away from him in a gentle haze, but he clearly hears, "I just want you to be absolutely certain, that's all."

The ability to recognise a key phrase is an essential part of his stock-in-trade. He hasn't conducted hundreds – maybe even thousands – of interviews with witnesses, victims, and suspects alike without developing a good ear for the quiet secondary words on which the true significance an entire conversation might hang. Accordingly, and without any conscious direction, his thoughts snap into sharp focus and his mind goes to work on what it can recall from the preceding few minutes.

"I mean," Grace says, the fingers of one hand tracing light, complicated patterns against his skin, "it says something, doesn't it? It makes a statement."

Christmas. She's talking about Christmas. Lunch. Tomorrow. In Rye. With David and Alison.

"You'll like them," he mumbles, buying himself a little more time to pick further through the fuzzy snatches of words filtering through his head.

"I'm sure I will," she says, her breath warm against his neck, "but that's not the point, is it?"

It seems not, Boyd concludes, finally cementing together a good enough working knowledge of what the hell's going on to tell her, "I know what I'm doing, okay?"

"Do you?" It's not a challenge, not quite, but the words hold solid intent.

How many more times, he wonders with an inward groan, will they have to go through the same thing in subtly different guises? And what the hell else can he possibly say or do to convince her that he truly says what he means, and means what he says? Shifting position just enough to be able to look at her properly, he puts one hand behind his head and says, "It's just lunch, Grace."

Her reply is quick. "You're not that naïve, Boyd. It's a damn sight more than lunch, and you know it. Like I said, it makes a statement."

He's right about the nature of the unspoken subtext. He knows he is. Can hear it in her voice, feel it in the increasing tension of her body. Resisting the impulse to give vent to a heavy, irritable sigh, he inquires, "A statement you really don't think we should be making?"

"I…" she pauses, seems to consider her reply carefully as she half sits up and continues, "I just think… it's a bit… soon."

" _Soon_?" he echoes, not bothering to hide the note of scathing disbelief that laces his tone. "Christ, Grace, how many bloody years have we known each other?"

A flicker of a brief smile appears in wry acknowledgement of at least the last decade. It's followed by a slight grimace and, "But this…" she gestures vaguely at nothing in particular, " _this_ is all so new."

It's time to cut to the very heart of the matter. Gruff and abrasive, because that's just how he is, Boyd states, "And you're still more than half convinced I'm going to wake up one bloody morning and decide it's all been one huge, fucked-up mistake, aren't you?"

Grace's answer is indirect. "Perhaps… we should have waited."

He can feel his pulse quickening, his hackles rising. His instinct is to lash out, to let his temper rise and lead him where it wishes. It would be a mistake – a serious mistake – he knows. Striving for patience, he growls, "For _what_ , exactly?"

She doesn't look happy. Far from it. He can feel her withdrawing. Not physically, not yet, but mentally, emotionally. "I don't know."

She needs him to be the best man he can be, Boyd knows. Needs him to engage with her, to listen to her, and maybe most of all, to talk freely to her about all the sorts of thoughts and feelings he's so used to keeping firmly to himself. Something of a challenge, given how taciturn he is about such things by nature, but one he's prepared to at least attempt to rise to. Steeling himself, he sits up, carefully drawing her with him. She feels so slight, so fragile, the considerable amount of weight she lost in the aftermath of the operation to remove the tumour that caused them both so much misery not yet regained. Delicate. In many more ways than one, he suspects. Living day-to-day with so much lingering visceral fear and uncertainty… it can't be easy. The thought gentles him, damps down the glowing embers that threaten to spark his incendiary, explosive temper. Quieter than he first intended, he says, "Good things _can_ come from bad, you know. Maybe it wasn't the best catalyst, but that doesn't invalidate – "

"'It'?" she interrupts.

He doesn't understand why she needs to hear the damned words aloud, over and over again. If it were him… He stops the thought before it can properly form. He's faced more than his share of adversity over the years, no question, but he's not in a position to dictate how she should think and feel about… Well, any of it. Keeping his tone neutral, his voice steady, he says, "Linda. The cancer. All of it."

Grace relaxes a perceptible fraction. Why, he's not sure. When she speaks again, her voice is soft. "I'm sorry."

He has no idea what she thinks she should apologise for. Tightening his arms around her, Boyd does his best to give her some of the reassurance she so obviously needs, saying, "Look, don't ask me to explain it, because I honestly don't think I can, but realising how I felt… it wasn't a bolt from the blue. Not for me. More like…" he considers for a moment, thinking back to those dark, difficult days and the knowledge that sprang from them. "More like a door opening. You understand? Something that had been there for God knows how long finally being brought out into the light."

"You're better with words than you think," Grace says, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "But – "

"No," he interrupts, determined to make her understand, "there are no 'buts', Grace. Not as far as I'm concerned. No ifs, no buts, no conditions. Maybe it's different for you, but for me it's very simple. I love you, and I want to be with you."

Her answer is barely above a whisper, but Boyd hears it. "It's not different for me."

"There you are, then," he retorts, not sure if he should be feeling triumphant or not. "Stop trying to find problems that just aren't there."

"I'm sorry," she says again.

"Don't," he warns her, only half-joking. "It drives me bloody mad, this bad habit you've picked up of continually apologising for everything. I don't have the patience for it."

Grace is silent for several stretched-out moments and he waits, knowing she's going to speak. She does, still pressed against his shoulder. "I'm just so scared the whole damned time, Peter. Scared the doctors have made a mistake; scared the operation and the radiotherapy weren't enough; scared that there will be bad news at the next check-up…"

"Scared," he guesses, heavy-hearted, "that things between us will change, and if the worst _does_ happen, you'll have to go through it all on your own?"

Her reply is barely audible. "Yes."

It's a huge admission, Boyd realises, and that's what eradicates his mounting exasperation. He moves carefully, changing position again, this time sitting up properly on the sofa and moving her back into the comforting security of his lap. His bare feet are on the floor, and the smooth old wooden floorboards feel cool, but not unpleasantly so. What focuses his attention, though, is the distinctive feel of skin against skin, but it's a soothing sensation now, not an erotic one. Waiting until Grace lifts her head to look at him, he says, "If I thought for one minute you'd agree, I'd ask you to marry me, and to hell with the bloody consequences."

She doesn't look anything like as surprised as he expects. "Consequences…?"

"Work," he elucidates, not daring to imagine the repercussions if he was to take _that_ particular piece of news to his superiors. Nothing good, no doubt – strict orders to immediately find a replacement offender profiler for the CCU being the very least of it.

"Oh." The brevity of her response tells him that her thoughts exactly mirror his.

"But the point is," he continues before either of them can dwell too much on something that's never going to happen, "I'm not going anywhere. I made a conscious choice, Grace, and I intend to stick by it. And if you don't know by now that I can be as stubborn as a bloody mule…"

That makes her laugh, if only softly, tremulously. "Oh, that I _do_ know, yes."

"Well, then." Boyd shrugs. Attempting levity, he continues, "I'm a stubborn, bad-tempered, pig-headed – "

"Over-protective…" Grace interjects.

"That, too," he allows.

Blue eyes glint at him. "…bear of a man. One who's actually a damn great pussycat at heart."

"If you really must," he growls, expressing the expected distaste for the notion. No point in attempting complete denial – she knows him far too well for that. He eyes her carefully, trying to decide if her gentle teasing indicates that the threatened storm has passed them by. "But one who's never, _ever_ wrong."

Grace straightens in his lap, shaking her head. "No. On that point, I have to disagree with you."

He grins, pleased by the quick response. Accordingly, his reply is a lazy, deliberate, "Well, we'll see, won't we?"

"You _are_ wrong, you know," she informs him a second or two later, taking the bait, just as he intended. "It was nineteen forty-seven."

"'Forty-five," he counters, though he's by no means as certain as he was hours and hours ago when the ridiculous argument first started. "Next month's expenses on it."

Her lip curls into a disdainful sneer. "It's no fun gambling on an absolute certainty, Boyd."

"Not prepared to put your money where your mouth is, eh?" he pushes.

A magnificent scowl accompanies, "Next month's expenses _and_ a bottle of that nice Rioja Eve found."

"Done," he says. It doesn't matter to him if he eventually has to pay up or not, truth be told; he'd give her the world if she asked him to. He just has to find a way to convince her of it. Which he will, in time. He's not a patient man, but, yes, he's endlessly, unreasonably stubborn. Always has been, always will be.

Grace reaches out, caresses his cheek for a moment. Her voice is very quiet as she says, "You really are sure?"

Her fingertips are cool, feather-light, their touch intimate and yet a little tentative. Butterfly wings fluttering gently against his skin. Feels better than he could ever have imagined. "About…?"

"Tomorrow," she says, staring straight at him, straight into him. "Us. Everything, really."

To Boyd's surprise, no annoyance flares in response. He doesn't even feel the need to sigh. He just gazes back into the troubled blue eyes and nods. "Yes."

She stretches up to kiss him then. Light as the fingers that glide along the length of his jaw, and every bit as tender. Boyd is not a sentimental man, but that kiss… it has a profound effect on him. Reminds him, somehow, of what he saw in her face as she struggled back to full awareness after that damned operation and realised he was there with her, right at her side just as he'd promised her he would be. Acceptance. Gratitude. Love. As she draws away and settles her head back against his shoulder again, she asks, "Do you remember Charles? Charles Hoyle?"

A vivid flashback to standing alone in that bright, breezy hallway staring down the barrels of a loaded shotgun with Grace screaming his name from behind a barricaded door comes very close to sending a chill down Boyd's spine. It doesn't quite manage it, but he definitely feels a momentary constriction in his chest that reminds him of the way his heart was hammering as he goaded and gibed, and prepared for the split-second reaction that would save him – or not – from the brutal consequences of being blasted in the chest at close range. Oh, yes, Boyd remembers Charles Hoyle. Only a lingering recollection of the high regard Grace once had for the other man stops him from answering in the pithiest and most execrable of terms. He settles for another brief nod, another laconic, "Yes."

"I was terrified," she confesses, her flat, controlled tone completely at odds with the words. "The boy – Kevin – was dying, right there in front of me, and I knew there was no way Charles would let me live. And then suddenly you were there, out in the hall with him, and I knew that if _anyone_ would risk absolutely everything to save me – us – it would be you."

In hindsight, Boyd finds it difficult to believe he acted as recklessly as he did. Walking into that damned house on his own to confront Hoyle even though there were armed officers already on the scene. Complete madness, in all honesty. He knows he sounds gruff as he offers a dismissive, "Well, you know…"

"It was a shock."

He frowns. "Hang on, didn't you gave me weeks of bloody grief afterwards for my 'entirely predictable stupidity'?"

Grace spares him a small smile before explaining, "I didn't mean that. I meant, as I finally dealt with the ghost of one infuriating police officer, it was a shock to realise I'd broken my promise to myself and fallen in love with another one."

Things that have quietly baffled Boyd for a long time suddenly start to make some kind of sense. The unpleasant increase of friction between them that seemed to come from nowhere, but, yes, had definitely started after Hoyle's unlamented demise. The way she had slowly and surely become so brittle, so defensive, so unwilling to spend any more time alone with him than was strictly necessary; how frustrated he became in turn with her increasing bickering and criticism. The way they'd sniped and snapped and snarled and brought out the absolute worst in each other until the whole bad situation had exploded in that final vicious, far too personal row that ended with her walking out of the building in the middle of the day and not returning after an appropriate cooldown as he'd expected. A very bad time for them, one that had left them both licking their respective wounds, but one that he finally thinks he understands.

Grace is studying him with steady calm, and he's struck by a strong sense that she's reading his mind, that she's watching him slowly putting the pieces of the jigsaw together to create the full, complicated picture she's doubtless been able to see for… well, a long, long time. Trusting that his instincts are right, and she's following his unspoken thoughts, Boyd says, "That's why…?"

It's her turn to nod. "I didn't realise it at the time, but after Sarah… Well, let's just say with you spending every spare moment criss-crossing the Atlantic I had an unexpected amount of free time in which to think."

Sarah. Of course. Another couple of pieces of the puzzle fall neatly into place. The endless frosty looks and sharp comments that he'd assumed at the time were just an unfortunate legacy of that big bust-up at the start of the Daniel Lennon case, but now seem to indicate something else entirely – something that even _he_ can now interpret as simple green-eyed jealousy. He shakes his head slowly. "Oh, Grace… _Grace_ …"

"So now you know," she says, an edge of brave defiance vying with the weary resignation in her tone. "Well, they do say there's no fool like an old fool."

"I thought you hated me," he blurts out, the words coming in an unplanned rush. "You know, after…" He doesn't finish the sentence. _Repressed, depressed, and in denial… Isolated and unloved._

It still stings, even now.

"We always hurt the ones we love," she says, looking down, "isn't that what they say?"

"Grace…"

"It's ironic, isn't it?" she says, still not looking at him. "I couldn't deal with the feelings I realised I had for you, and I ended up pushing you straight into the arms of another woman because of it."

It would be easy to agree with her, Boyd realises, and thus absolve himself of any responsibility for hurting her, albeit unintentionally, but it wouldn't be honest. And he prides himself on being a fundamentally honest man. Momentarily looking up at the shadowy ceiling he says, "It wasn't that simple."

"No?" Barely a murmur.

"No," he confirms, gently taking one of her hands in his. "And it doesn't bloody matter anyway. I was attracted to her, I won't deny that, and I was… fond… of her, but I didn't love her. And I certainly wasn't _in_ love with her." He shakes his head. "Why the hell are we talking about any of this, anyway? It's over and done, all of it. Ancient history. What's important now is – "

" _She_ loved _you_ ," Grace interrupts, "and don't try to tell me that she didn't, because I know damn well she did. It was blindingly obvious every single time she came over to see you."

"Maybe she did," he grudgingly admits, thinking of the attractive, sparky brunette in question, "but she knew as well as I did that it wasn't going anywhere, not really. It was just… circumstantial. She needed someone to help her get over the loss of her husband, and I… Well, I think I just needed to be needed."

Grace nods. "And that was _my_ fault."

"No."

" _Yes_ ," she insists, suddenly fierce. "Don't try to put me up on a damned pedestal, Boyd, because we'll both end up getting hurt when I fall off. Saint-bloody-Grace is just a _myth_."

He can't prevent an amused, derisive snort. "Oh, come _on_ … Christ, if anyone alive knows that, it's _me_. You're no bloody saint, and I'm definitely no fucking knight in shining armour. So what?"

"So… are you really sure you want to do this?"

There are times – quite a lot of times – when she can be every bit as obstinate as he can. It's infuriating. And he wouldn't change it, or _her_ , for anything.

"Well, we've just gone round in a complete fucking circle, haven't we?" he says. It's a rhetorical question, and an exasperated one at that. He sighs, rubs his eyes with his free hand. They feel sore and gritty with tiredness. "Look, Grace, it's Christmas Eve, all the damn shops are shut by now, and we haven't got so much as a frozen chicken breast between us, much less a whole turkey… so let's just stick to the original plan, eh?"

"Even though – "

"Grace."

She visibly subsides, sudden acquiescence seeming to take her over. "All right."

"Thank fuck for that."

Silence creeps in between them, but it's a restful one, lacking meaning or belligerence. Sometimes, even with them, silence can just be silence; nothing more than the absence of sound. Boyd's grateful for it. Maybe he's getting old, or maybe she's mellowing him. Either way, he finds he doesn't have the same insatiable appetite for conflict that he used to.

Freeing her hand to run her fingers through his hair, Grace asks, "What's he like? Your brother?"

An image of David, older, shorter and stockier, and considerably more placid, flits through Boyd's mind and he allows himself a rueful smile. "Nothing like me."

"Good." He gives her a sour look and she duly smirks and adds, "The thought of there being _two_ of you…"

Boyd closes his eyes, allows himself to relax into the combined tranquillity of the moment and her touch. "That's not intended as a compliment, is it?"

"I'll let you decide that for yourself," she tells him, still playing with his hair. It seems to fascinate her, he's noticed. Strange, the things women find attractive. It's… nice… though, to find himself the absolute centre of someone's guileless attention. Not something he's been used to for a long, long time. Women and their agendas… they've helped make him increasingly cynical over the years. Ironic that this woman, who is one of the most complicated and contradictory he's ever met, should turn out to be so straightforward in her simple affection for him.

The sound of her voice jerks him from a light doze. "Is that today's paper over there?"

Confused, Boyd blinks and follows her gaze to the still-folded newspaper lying unread on the coffee table. He has a vague recollection of dropping it there as he wrestled with simultaneously finishing his morning coffee and buttoning up his just-ironed shirt. Feels like a whole lifetime ago. "Yeah. Why?"

"Pass it over," Grace instructs, shifting her weight to allow him to do so. "We're going to settle something for once and for all."

Still bewildered, he stretches, captures the paper and hands it to her. He expects the usual snide comment about his choice of reading material – The Telegraph – but it seems her interest lies elsewhere. Wondering what she's up to, he simply watches and waits.

"Here we are," Grace announces after a few moments of flipping pages. "Today's films. _It's A Wonderful Life_ , made in… Oh."

Sudden wary optimism makes Boyd challenge, "'Oh'?"

She looks at him, the amused blue eyes looking very striking in the halflight. "Made in nineteen forty- _six_. We were both wrong."

Well, damn. Just… damn.

 _\- the end -_

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 _ **A/N:** For those who've not found it, there is a second, non-related 2016 B/G WtD Christmas story from me called _ "Feminine Wiles" _which is only available at Archive of Our Own due to its MA rating. ;)_


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